June 13, 2005

Manny spanked the ball toward the right field corner. At first, I thought, ehhh...foul ball.

As it traced its parabola, I thought, hmm, maybe flyout.

But it just kind of...kept going.

But then Reds right fielder Wily Mo Pena leapt and collided with the wall while the ball disappeared in the vicinity of his glove, so I thought...eh. At least it was an interesting flyout.

Then Pena was rolling around on the ground with a look of anguish on his face, so I thought, dumbass, you banged into the wall and hurt yourself.

But the real Moment was when the camera switched back to Manny on the basepaths, throwing both arms in the air in celebration, then clapping his hands, then tucking his head down and quietly continuing the trot around the bases.

What an earnest, delightful creature he can be. What a game this is sometimes.

I have an excuse, though, and a promise. First the promise: tomorrow I will be attending the game against the Reds at Fenway Park, and I promise a wallbanger of a post, complete with photo gallery.

Now that that's out of the way, my excuse: I was in Columbus, Ohio this weekend, seeing my sister graduate from The! Ohio! State! University! She will be going right back to OSU for vet school, so hopefully at some point I'll be able to go into that cathedral of a football stadium (makes Gillette look like Fenway) for an actual game. Someday if I'm very, very good, I might be able to go to the Michigan game.

And I guess if I lead the life of a freakin' saint, I could go to the Michigan game when Sam is there and she and I could talk junk such as has never been seen before, even in the heated Michigan-Ohio State rivalry.

I thought of Sam all weekend, actually, which might be kind of sad considering as for me she is still imaginary. I thought of her cringing in horror as I "oohed" and "ahhed" at all the acoutrements of the Shoe. I also thought of how when I got back, I'd be sure to remind her that Derek Jeter and Jorge Posada are Michigan fans.

No, but seriously. It was my little sister's graduation. Rivalries and Red Sox take a backseat.

June 10, 2005

Hey guys. I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya, but you'll just have to take my word that shit be hectic. Still, I couldn't let another day pass without giving my, I am sure, hotly anticipated report on the Red Sox' appearance on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy on Tuesday.

While a beanball war was erupting at Busch Stadium, the episode, taped months ago and hyped to the hilt since, finally aired on Bravo.

June 07, 2005

It's a strange phenomenon, seeing the Red Sox back at the same park that was the Park of Our Dreams just months ago. Seeing Terry Francona, chewing methodically as always, peering out of the same green-and-brown enclosure in which he appears in so many celebratory videos. Seeing Trot Nixon, one of my enduring images of Game 4, up at bat again with the same backdrop--nothing you'd be able to name if asked a week ago or a week from now, but fitting together with all the subconscious details behind each batter.

We've been over and over and over it, on video, on television, in our mind's eye. The only parks we know better now than Busch Stadium are Yankee Stadium and, of course, Fenway Park.

What's the prevailing media angle on this series, which so far has been like being pecked to death by a duck for the Red Sox? The Cardinals' revenge? A general balancing of kharma?

Or proof through physical demonstration just how much of a miracle the World Series was? When you remember it, now, watching the Cardinals' brand of smart, relentless baseball chew through the Sox' rotation and bullpen, the only way it seems possible is via the supernatural, some kind of spell cast over the world those four nights last year.

Now, the spell is broken. So that'sDavid Eckstein Larry Walker (OK, I meant Larry Walker, it was Larry Walker I was seeing in my mind but somehow I put the wrong name down so sue me). Oh, Albert Pujols can hit?

It's as if they were replaced with pod people last fall, isn't it? Or as if we were in a parallel universe. Hard to believe that this is almost exactly the same team the Sox cut through like a hot knife through Land O' Lakes.

I thought that time would make the Series easier to understand, not harder.

June 04, 2005

As some of you may know, in the past several years Beth has suffered at times from what I will politely term a tenuous grip on reality. Since she has come under my care, I have been working strenuously with her to try to balance her moods and maintain a healthy relationship with her surroundings at all times.

Therefore following today's game, in which, to quote Beth, "Tito sticks with fucking Buckethead till death do they part, apparently, but in a situation that CLEARLY calls for Keith Foulke, they put fucking JOHN HALAMA in because I guess it's better for them to just let Halama screw the pooch and get it over with instead of taking a chance with one of the best closers IN THE GAME..." I had to make a very difficult decision to limit Beth's Red Sox exposure for the rest of the weekend.

Many of you out there may suffer from a similar condition, and so I trust that you, her audience, will understand, if she should be absent for the next day or so from this website. With any luck (and enough medication), Beth should be back providing you with the Sox commentary I know you have come to enjoy.

I couldn't help myself. I had to add the Cabrera welcome to my ever-growing VHS library of Sox moments, which now includes every pre-game, game and post-game of the World Series, the parade in its entirety (unfortunately with no sound as I muted the television while it was taping, without knowing it would be muted on the recording because of the way it's hooked up), various post-season appearances, and Opening Day.

So after recording Cabrera's moment from SportsDesk, I naturally rewound the tape and watched the ring ceremony (all this instead of the studying for work I'm supposed to be doing, bad, bad, BAD!).

I want to note that one of my favorite parts of the whole thing is when Johnny Pesky, moving through the line of players after receiving his ring, says, with great affection, "Leskanic, you son of a bitch."

I said in my last post that "whether they won or lost wasn't what was most important." And, true, the Cabrera welcome would have made the game one for the scrapbook even if it had been a loss.

But, here's the thing. I receive scores and updates on my cell phone. Last night, the last one I saw said ANA 4 BOS 1. The only part of the game I really saw was Bill Mueller*'s single to score Jason Varitek, Cabrera's return, and a few plays after that, including a wretched snafu between Millar and Wells at first base that made me fling down my fork at the restaurant where the game was on in protest.

This morning I sat down to write the post about Cabrera without checking the score, and my original first sentence was "They lost again last night."

They won last night. But, really, whether they won or lost wasn't what was most important.

What was important was the first at-bat by Orlando Cabrera, stepping to the plate in his Angels uniform, while the shortstop who wore St. Louis red (all red teams...) last year crouched in Sox home whites in his old spot on the diamond.

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